


elocution

by juliettes



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: 6 + 1 ish, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 01:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18488071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliettes/pseuds/juliettes
Summary: a study in clear and expressive speech, often with various manners of grammar, style, pronunciation, and tone either denoting emotion and its nuanced undercurrents or the lack thereof.or; all the times eliott says his name





	elocution

**Author's Note:**

> i miss them so dearly and the exquisite rarity that is lucas' name on eliott's lips is too lovely and special. this is also hugely canon compliant, so the dialogue is mimicked fairly (very) closely!

**i.**

They sit close, knees almost touching, his smell getting everywhere, and Lucas tries not to breathe it in, deeply, instead finding new focus on places that aren't his eyes or his lips or the small constellation of moles on the side of his face. They sit close, maybe close enough or not enough, knees not quite touching. It's only been a few days but the proximity is daunting, his body unfaithful, and Eliott is too alluring eclipsed by the shivery sunlight. If he looked — properly looked — he would fall too quickly and always, always too quietly.

If he fell, he would fall hard.

Lucas pauses. "I—"

"No, I'm kidding, Lucas."

The name — his name, is breathed out. A crooked smile curves the sides of Eliott's mouth. Something stirs inside of him. His eyes crinkle the slightest when he smiles and Lucas' thoughts scatter. His smell gets everywhere, and Lucas breathes it in, finally, just discreetly, not knowing that the smell won't leave even after he's home, even after the joints and the beers and the longing that chokes the air out of his lungs. Eliott is pretty like a heart attack. Pretty in a way that hurts to look. Pretty in way that reminds him of things that are flimsy, fleeting, airy; too close and he'll fall and cut himself; too far and he’ll start to want.

A brief moment passes. His phone stirs. Steam comes out when he breathes.

Eliott looks at him.

(Lucas hits the ground — _hard_.)

 

 

**ii.**

Fingers and breaths are ghosts over his skin with each aspiration, each exhalation, and Eliott is warm, so warm. Sometimes, often, those fingers stray, trailing beneath the hem of his shirt, and then Lucas is leaning in to kiss him, hungry all of a sudden, pulling him in until there's no oxygen left, and then he's being pushed into the mattress, kissed again and again and again until he can feel the buzz of Eliott's laughter against his mouth. Eliott looks at him, just looks. Lucas looks back. Time is a watery thing, he thinks briefly, because somehow it slows and speeds all at once, and Lucas wants to ask him to _stay_. Yet the verb doesn’t leave his mouth. Many things never do, or maybe it’s too many of them that does.

A thumb traces over his cheek and his nape, the touch tender, soft, deadly sweet, and Lucas watches what the shift of the light does to Eliott’s eyes. How they turn from blue to grey to blue, committing it to memory. How he smells and how he looks contoured by the shadows. How their bodies fit together. He’s got all that light about him, dripping with yellows and golds Lucas has never tried coming close to where to touch would be to burn, but for some reason Lucas doesn’t mind.

Mere breaths later — Eliott pulls him back down to pull him close again, and then he’s removing his shirt, lips skimming across his jaw and along his neck and Lucas does the same, feeling the soft skin under his fingertips. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss until they’re no longer kissing anymore.

Dust shimmers in the yellow light when they lie against each other. Each circle on his back is punctuated by a kiss on his shoulderblade, and Lucas shivers, weak under the ruling touch. All their lines fit too well together, like they belong. He doesn’t want him to leave. His room is somewhat of a hidden gem this early on a Saturday morning, because the apartment is hardly ever entirely asleep, or just never entirely awake. The faintest memory of Eliott mouthing a path up his spine makes him shudder a bit, even when there are fingers replacing it, whispering when they talk, kiss, talk.

Walls are thin in Paris, and so is the looming afternoon.

“What are the other Lucases doing right now?” Lucas feels the soft vibration of his voice. Each touch to his skin is electric, like the way his name comes out of Eliott’s mouth, each syllable utterly intoxicating. What they previously never had and what they have now — it spills across his bedsheets and over his ribcage.

Hands fall around his sides. “The other Lucases?” Eliott hums. His hair smells the slightest of rain, from last night, probably, _definitely_. The knowledge makes him breathless. Lucas turns his head. Lips press on his neck and Lucas rolls over, then, fully now, holding onto him, onto his hips, saying nothing and everything, sentence structures and semantics failing him, mouth cherry-red and swollen and wanting. Crimson shades his cheeks, voices collapse. There’s an arm to each side of him.

His name is lost in the space between them, the first of that kind. Lucas isn’t sure he’s paying attention, though Eliott gives him the satisfaction of answering each clause, each query, as clocks slow and the morning suspends.

And the sensation — Eliott’s smile, his smell, his mouth — it’s exquisite.

 

 

**iii.**

The pan sizzles, sputtering. Lucas watches him from across the stove, his messy hair, unaware of the dried paint still on his skin. Silence gets anxious after a while, after Mika followed Manon out, stealing with them the noise and the comfort. Hope has always been a terribly disquieting thing, and Lucas has long tried to stop expecting people to stay. But this, though, is a first — Eliott not leaving, Eliott in his kitchen, Eliott cooking, _Eliott, Eliott, Eliott._ There’s so much of that want inside his chest it’s hard to breathe. So much of that hope he’s tried to bury.

A hoodie hangs off Eliott’s frame and Lucas has his eyes on the floor, sullen. The kiss was sweet and tender, and _thump_ , _thump_ , _thump_ went a failing heart, because it’s all new, painfully new. Light halos Eliott when he says, “Are you okay?” like what the sun does to the moon, seemingly noticing the lack of response.

Lucas’ eyes flicker up, briefly, unsure. What he says and what he doesn’t say, it’s in the void between them. Eliott meets his gaze. “I thought you’d left this morning.”

It’s posed almost resignedly, bitter stains on wary syllables. For a moment Lucas wants to reach out to touch him, to see if Eliott isn’t imagined because his mind is cruel and his heart is even crueler. He doesn’t, though. Eliott is far away, so far Lucas doesn’t know if he can reach him.

“— Well no, as you can see, I’m still here,” Eliott is quick to answer, quick to turn back around. “I might have messed up with the cinnamon—”

“What I meant is that I thought you’d left like the other day, with Lucille,” the words roll out fast, no air between them, all the syllables scraping against his throat. Then Eliott turns around, and Lucas can see there’s still paint on his stomach, on his chest. Lucas’ heart fails, flutters, falters.

“But Lucas, I mean — why would I do that?” Eliott stares. Lucas stares back. His name is soft, always so soft, so careful. “Lucille and I aren’t together anymore.”

All of a sudden he’s tired, so tired.  “Stop it.” The pan sputters. “The last time you told me that I found you with your tongue in her mouth at Chloé’s.” He sounds caustic, he knows, and he knows how the words are harsh around the edges, hostile.

Eliott closes the distance and the world is quick to fall away. It always is. He cups his face, and his hands are the slightest bit rough — _artist’s hands_ , and Lucas looks up, searching his eyes, his face, for an answer he isn’t sure he can find. Lucas listens and it’s the sudden longing for a future together that consumes him, that he says _No, but I do want something serious_ , that it’s the two of them against the world, that the universe contracts into just the space around them, between them.

That Eliott replies with _Good, because I’m not going anywhere right now_ that the longing becomes —

real.

 

**iv.**

“How many Lucases and Eliotts do you think are married in your parallel universes?”

Lucas thinks it’s all of them, although what comes out instead is, “ _A lot_.”

It’s every single one of them, Lucas thinks, because each Lucas would fall in love with an Eliott that fits him, loves him, cares for him, where he would care back and love him and fit him. This belief is rooted in a certainty that Eliott is the first and the last. That, despite his stormy disposition, the belief is rooted with the simple present and a future that awaits. Empires rise and fall, time often stutters, but in the simple present, his body is still sticky and it aches in a good way, aches in a way that being heartsick doesn’t, aches in a way that comes only with being enamoured by Eliott.

Ultimately, though, in the simple present as most simple presents often go — in this universe — Lucas thinks he might have fallen in love.

(But then, this high up, standing on a precipice, it’s hard to stay standing and even harder not to fall and crash below.)

 

 

**v.**

The day is blue, and it begins with the belief settling inside Lucas’ stomach that he wants this, he does, he wants it so bad.

It begins with a post-it note, somewhat crumpled and difficult to find (found only in a stack of five underneath Manon (his) bed), a pen in his hand and his heart in his throat. Eliott is asleep not far away, and he wears his shirt, his sweatpants. Red looks good on him, Lucas wants to write, but he scribbles it out and shoves the discarded post-it inside his pocket before settling on something else. It’s a yellow post-it note, slightly crinkled but mostly folded, with handwriting that isn’t the best-looking.

( _Gone to school. Can’t wait to be with you again. Miss you already_.)

Watching Eliott fast asleep fills him with something he can’t name. Relief, maybe, or maybe it’s love, he doesn’t know. The post-it note is a glaring yellow on the couch. He looks at it for a while, a bite to his lip, suddenly embarrassed. Maybe it’s better just to skip school and stay. The words on his phone stare back at him, as his fingers are poised above the screen.

“Aren’t you late?”

Lucas startles, looking up, but he smiles at the familiarity of his voice, the cadence, its particular inflexions. “Yeah, but don’t worry I have time.”

“Time to do what? To watch me sleep?”

“No. I just didn’t want you to wake up alone,” he says, standing, walking closer. Still, Eliott doesn’t face him.

But the next words are built to wound. “Listen, Lucas, I’m not stupid, it’s Monday morning and I would’ve guessed that you’d gone to school,” Eliott snaps. “Plus, you left me a note, right?” He tugs the duvet over himself, not turning to face him. “Don’t worry, go to school, I don’t need your help with this.”

Lucas stares at him, quiet for a while. “Okay, then.” He didn’t flinch, though it took some effort not to. “See you later.”

The yellow post-it is scrunched up in his fist, and it joins the others in his pocket.

 

**vi.**

It’s too many hours later and Eliott is alluring, too alluring standing in front of him, his features soft and sharp in the evening light, hair like the golden hour. Lucas wants to kiss him, that much he knows.

“Hey.”

The smile curving Eliott’s mouth is small, and Lucas keeps it close. “Hey,” he says back. There’s too much space between them, but Lucas doesn’t close it, careful not to push. “How was your day?”

He shrugs a little, craning his neck to look at him properly. “Chill. You?”

Eliott shrugs, too, looking away briefly, and Lucas watches him, intently, enthralled by everything he does, the constellation of moles on his face, noting their position and treating them as a target, wanting to kiss all of them. “Same. Chill.” Lucas’ gaze flickers to his mouth. He wants to kiss that, too. “I’m sorry. About this morning.”

He shifts to move closer, closer, closer, because close is never enough and says, voice soft, “Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently, because Eliott’s smile sort of drops, shaking his head. “Yes, it does,” and he’s moving back, away from him.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yeah, it does matter.” He sounds forlorn. Lucas turns to face him. “It happened, and it will happen again. And it pisses me off.” The light plays with the odd hues in his eyes when Eliott averts his gaze elsewhere. “The thing is I don’t know—,” he pauses, as if unsure, not looking at him, “I don’t know how to control this.” When he finally meets Lucas’ eyes he says, “And it’s killing me.” And maybe Lucas’ heart breaks. “I’m scared you can’t handle it,” he says, wearily. “Actually, no, I — I don’t want you to have to handle it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning sometimes, I’m not going to be nice like this morning.” The words are small, his voice fractured. “Sometimes I’m going to sleep for a whole week. Sometimes, I’m not going to feel like doing anything. Sometimes, I’m going to get excited over stupid stuff—”

Lucas is fast to reach out toward him. “I can handle all of that, I think.”

“No. I’m serious, Lucas.” He frees his wrist from Lucas’ grip, looking at him. It is said hopelessly this time, his name that is, like he’s being let go, like Eliott is sure he’ll leave like Lucas has always known people to do. This close, he stands taller. This close, Lucas can smell the faint remains of the body wash he has in his shower.

“Me too.”

For several more minutes it takes a bit of a push and pull, and Lucas is sure, so sure of the feeling that just Eliott is enough. Eliott here, with him, with all that he has and all that he doesn’t. Just here. To take him as he is, to take him as he was and what he will be. Present, past, future. Softly, he tilts Eliott’s chin up, all the heat in his lungs. It’s hard not to be drawn in by Eliott’s gravity, so Lucas falls, and falls, and falls. The kiss is still somewhat calculated, but he doesn’t mind. He’s missed this — missed them, or maybe he's just missed Eliott.

And Lucas holds onto him, holds onto him tight, not letting him go.

And when they pull apart, Eliott’s smile blinds, and the laugh that comes out makes his heart beat awkwardly out of pace.

Lucas whispers, “You’re beautiful when you laugh,” and he means it entirely.

 

 

**vii.**

The hoodie Eliott wears hugs his frame oddly, because it’s Lucas’, and when Eliott has his arms wrapped around him it smells like everything he has at home. Traffic shudders past; people look, others don’t. Lucas finds that he doesn’t care. “Are you okay?” Eliott asks, cradling his face. It’s affectionate, so affectionate his vision blurs a bit more, and the voice that speaks is watery, the words coming out before he has half a mind to stop them.

“I don’t want you to leave,” and it’s a stubborn thing to say, he knows. Lucas doesn’t meet his gaze.

“Hey.” Eliott tilts his head up a bit, insistent, so that their foreheads touch and Lucas can feel the soft stutter of his own breathing, the warmth of Eliott’s body against his. He’s adoring with him and Lucas doesn’t want him to go. It’s difficult not to be afraid when all he’s ever known is leaving. The brevity of most things in his life is scary, and this is no different. “I’m leaving because I haven’t been home in a week. I need to see my parents.” He takes a step back without taking his hands off him. “— And I can’t stand wearing your clothes anymore.”

It’s enough to make Lucas look up to Eliott grinning at him. He feels himself smile, too. “You got a problem with my clothes?”

“Well, the size, for starters,” Eliott laughs. But it’s an insecurity that eats away at his edges, an uncertainty that he’ll leave again and not come back. Eliott seemingly notices his silence, because he holds him a little tighter, drawing him in a bit closer. “This isn’t farewell.”

“I know.”

Quiet. Thumb smoothing over his cheek, nose pressed against his own. “We said minute by minute.” The smile Lucas offers is weak. Eliott presses his lips against his softly, swiftly. “Minute by minute,” he murmurs. Lucas can feel a warm wetness on his cheek, but Eliott wipes it away with his thumb before kissing him again — _again_. Eliott’s bus screeches to a stop and it huffs as people get on; it's easy to be distracted when he feels the softness of Eliott’s lips against his once more. Lucas looks at him and Eliott looks back. His hand shifts down to rest against his chest, just fleetingly, before he turns toward the bus, leaving Lucas to stare after him.

But then halfway there he stops all of a sudden, to turn, and the people inside the bus hardly pay attention. Eliott's eyes sweep over him, until it finally rests on his face. Like this, Eliott is gorgeous — he always is, always effortlessly so. “ _Lucas_.” There’s a finality in his voice Lucas has rarely heard before. Rarely heard at all, even. Reverent and warm, no longer breathed out and with a clarity that this is not the end, that it’s just the opening credits on a film reel that won’t unspool and the lingerings of a question without a response. “I love you.”

In the simple present, as most simple presents often go — in this universe — Lucas thinks he might have fallen in love. _No_ — he’s sure he has. It’s a sureness rooted in everything and nothing, and he lets himself fall.

Words aren’t enough, they never are, but all that’s left inside his lungs is: “ _Me too_.”

**Author's Note:**

> oops for the slight ooc. <3
> 
> scream at me on [@unquaintly](https://unquaintly.tumblr.com/)


End file.
